


Roulette

by flootzavut



Series: Callian stories [2]
Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e09 Fold Equity, F/M, Season/Series 02, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flootzavut/pseuds/flootzavut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cal likes roulette, but he also likes Gillian. So what's up with that?</p><p>Just a smutty little tag to 2:9, Fold Equity</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roulette

**Author's Note:**

> Taken me forever to get this edited to some level of satisfaction, hope you guys'll enjoy it.

He's in a foul mood by the time he hears Gillian unlock her door. He darts out into the corridor to waylay her, and she doesn't look at all surprised to see him, just shoots him a 'Really, Cal?' expression, without even  _trying_  to stop him following her into her hotel room.

She dumps her purse on the dresser, fluffs her hair as she turns back to him, and the look on her face makes him feel about three inches tall and twelve years old.

Naturally, that pisses him off even more.

"Had fun with Ben, did you?" It's petty and childish, but it's about the only thing she's done he can (semi) legitimately be angry at her for. And he's jealous, because it should've been him walking out with a literally glittering Gillian on his arm, and he's annoyed with himself because it could've been, if he wasn't such a total ass, and that makes him angrier still.

"Yes, actually, I did."

"How much money d'ya lose? You haven't really done Vegas until you've lost at least a grand."

Her eyes narrow. "Not all of us have to gamble to enjoy life, Cal."

"More fun if you do, though, innit?" He's baiting her, shamelessly. "Bit boring if you take all the risk out of it."

She arches one elegant eyebrow in a way that reeks of condescension even before she opens her mouth. "We saw a show, had a lovely meal, enjoyed some _mature_  conversation..."

 _Oh, like that is it?_  She's baiting him right back, and both of them are spoiling for a fight. He should've known this case would bite him right in the arse, but somehow he still can't bring himself to regret it.

He leers. "Mature conversation, eh? Sounds like a riot." He steps closer, gets up in her face. "'Course, depends what you mean by 'mature'. Do tell, darling, does Ben put out on a first date?"

Her disdain doesn't require words to be fully felt, and she's not even trying to pretend she doesn't feel  _one hundred percent_  his superior right now. He crowds her a bit more, but she refuses to be cowed, stands her ground with her hands on her hips and her lips pursed.

"You don't kiss and tell, eh? Or didn't you get lucky after all?"

"You're such a child."

"Makes life more interesting."

"For whom? Cleaning up after you is  _not_  my first choice for a full time job."

"Chose the wrong business partner then, didn't you?"

"I should've guessed you would be equally as frivolous about our finances even when it's not just your own livelihood at stake. For some reason I thought you might actually learn to share responsibility. More fool me."

He's so far in her space now he can only focus on one eye at a time. "Do me a favour. You  _knew_  that bonus was always going to go on roulette, Foster. You and I both know you weren't surprised."

"Surprised you'd gamble with our business? Surprised you'd throw away a windfall we really needed? No, Cal, I wasn't surprised." Her voice is calm, but her anger is written all over her face and she's not making any attempt whatsoever to hide it. "I was  _disappointed_."

That... stings. More than he'd confess. He's glad she's the vocal stress expert and he's the one obsessed with micro expressions, because maybe, just maybe, she won't have caught how much it hurt.

He rallies admirably, if he says so himself. "Admit it, you were a  _little_  excited there for a minute, thinking I might win."

She sighs and shakes her head at him like he's a naughty schoolboy. "No, Cal, I was  _mad_  at you for being so damn  _immature_. Despite what you might think, your taste for cheap thrills is  _not_  charming."

"I beg to differ. And as thrills go, it was hardly cheap, love."

"You realise what that money could've meant for us?"

"You realise there was no way I was  _ever_  going to be allowed to leave Vegas, or even that bloody casino, without having lost most of it already?"

"And you're sure enough of that to blow it all on double zero just to satisfy your stupid need to take a chance on the worst odds in the house? Are you  _ever_  going to grow up, Cal, huh?"

He's suddenly furious, and he steps in still closer, opens his mouth to say something he already knows he'll regret tomorrow, and then somehow instead of saying it, he's kissing her, raw and angry. And, oh God, so  _hungry_. Because it's Foster, and he's wanted to kiss her since the first moment he walked into her office in the Pentagon, and it's only got worse since then, and he wants to climb inside this feeling and never leave.

She kisses back, just as hard and possessive and angry, and just as full of the aching need that's been the constant undercurrent of their friendship from the very beginning.

Without disengaging from her mouth (because he never, ever wants to stop kissing her, ever), he pushes her back against the wall and lets the full length of his body press against hers, lets himself savour her softness and her curves. And, because he simply can't help himself, he lets his hands sweep down the sides of her ribcage and settle on her hips and hold her still as he leans harder against her, swallowing her startled whimper in his mouth as she feels  _exactly_  what she's doing to him.

He shouldn't be doing this, he knows - she's his friend, his business partner, his rock. He's talked himself out of making a pass at her more times than he cares to remember, for good reason. This is a terrible idea, but now he's kissing her, the arguments against it seem muted and irrelevant, because why, why would he ever give this up? And for that matter, why have they spent so much time arguing when they could've been doing this instead?

Her dress is rough under his hands, all the sparkling stuff so pretty to look at but not so nice to touch, and because this is the level of logic to which she's reduced him, he tugs at the fabric to peel it off her shoulder and push it down, then finally forces himself away from her mouth so he can look at the skin he's just exposed.

Gillian doesn't protest, just keeps breathing heavy and noisy, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She's pale and perfect, with a sprinkle of freckles that only emphasise how creamily delicious her skin looks. He pulls her dress further down, notices, almost clinically, how her breasts heave with her gasps, then reaches round and unsnaps her bra so he can watch them properly. When he glances back up at her face, her eyes are closed and her mouth is open, and when he cups her breast in one hand and lets his thumb tease her nipple, she bites her lip, trying unsuccessfully to subdue the moan.

"Hey, Foster."

She opens her eyes a crack, slowly, with an effort, as if her eyelids are made of lead. "Mmm?"

"You're bloody gorgeous."

"I'm still mad at you."

He shrugs, leans in to kiss her again. If this is what completely steaming mad looks like on her, he'll take a supersize portion with extra chocolate sauce, please.

Her fingers dig into his back, hard enough that her nails are going to leave marks even through the cotton of his shirt, and he groans and pulls her even closer.

She wasn't kidding when she said she was still mad at him. He can feel her fury in her hands, the way she bites his lip, the growl surfacing when he comes up for air again.

He really  _loves_  angry sex.

He pushes her dress further down, forcing it over her hips, shoving at it inexpertly - how she got into it without help he can't imagine - till it finally slips down her legs and into a pool around her feet. She steps out of it and kicks it away, and he should've listened when his daughter told him to exercise more and learn to meditate, because the sight of Gillian Foster in stockings, high heels, and a teeny tiny pair of knickers might be too much for his less than completely healthy body. It would be a huge shame to have a heart attack right now.

In those shoes, she is just a touch taller than him, and some days that'd bother him but today he's sort of savouring it. When he grins guilelessly up at her, she's still glowering, even as her fingers get busy pulling at his shirt, tearing at buttons she apparently doesn't have the patience to open.

He leans in to lick the base of her neck, because he needs to know if she tastes as good as she looks, and he's not at all surprised to discover the answer is no; she tastes  _better_. And she whimpers, and how she tastes is suddenly eclipsed by how she  _sounds_. Bloody  _hell_. If it's possible to come from flavour and sound alone, he's about to entirely shame himself.

"Cal..."

 _Oh, fuckety fuck_. He bites down hard on his lip, because for a moment he thinks he might actually just come in his trousers, and besides being embarrassing it would be a sorry waste of an erection. He wants to record that syllable and have it as his ringtone. "Jesus, Foster." She might actually kill him. He's not sure he even minds if she does, as long as her murder weapon of choice is her body.

She's still fighting with his shirt, scrabbling to get it off him with absolutely no finesse. He comes  _this close_  to commenting on her desperation to get him down to his birthday suit, but decides he doesn't actually have a death wish and is quite attached, harhar, to his privates. If he gets smart with her now, life and limb - or at least, life and bollocks - will definitely be at risk.

Instead he lets her get on with stripping him, and spends some extremely happy minutes nibbling her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder. He still can't get over having Gill's skin to explore, how smooth and soft it is, the way she writhes and gasps.

Once she's finally got rid of his shirt, his hands return automatically to her breasts. He tugs hard on her nipples and laughs when she swears breathlessly. Who knew she had such a kinky streak?

"Dirty girl," he murmurs. "Kept that quiet." He tugs again, and she moans. "Like it rough, do we?"

"Cal..."

Okay, in fairness, he doesn't need a recording. There's no way he's ever going to forget how his name sounds moaned out desperately as he pinches her nipples. It's permanently etched into his brain.

"You're a naughty one, ain't ya, Foster? Good to know."

He slides one hand up to cradle her jaw, leans in to press his lips against hers, licks into her mouth and savours how she tastes, eagerly swallowing her moans as he grinds his crotch into her. She's repaying his rough treatment with her nails digging into his shoulder and the back of his head, and he's not ashamed to admit he's loving it.

His only problem right now is there's so much of her, so much to touch and kiss and lick, and he only has two hands and one tongue and where does he even start? He wants all of her, wants to thoroughly map and memorise every inch of her body, wants to be sure he'll remember every tiny detail even if this never happens again.  _Especially_  if this never happens again. Gill has never seemed like a 'what happens in Vegas' kind of woman, but he didn't have her down as remotely kinky, either, so he's wary of making more assumptions.

And either way, he wants her so badly he doesn't want to forget a second of this, whether it's the first or the only time it happens.

He slides a hand down over her skin, forces himself to ease up on how he's crushing her into the wall in his painful eagerness. He needs just enough space to slide a hand down between them and into those tiny little knickers she's got on, and grins when he succeeds. She whimpers when a finger grazes her clit, and he moans right back when he feels just how turned on she is, because of  _him_.

The kiss gets softer, strangely blurry, as he loses himself in her, slick and warm under his fingers, all for him. "All for me," he murmurs into her mouth, then hopes she's too distracted to take any notice of what's he's actually saying. He wants to hold her, keep her, wants this never to stop, but he's not at all sure the way she's kissing and touching him, the way she's letting him kiss and touch  _her_ , actually means she's forgiven him for any of the shit he's pulled over the last couple of days.

He pulls back to search her face again. She's still completely pissed off, he realises, which he finds... almost impressive. No one should be able to hold on to their anger when they're this turned on.

He wonders if she'll still be angry after he's made her come her brains out once or twice, and decides, as a scientist and an inquisitive man, this is a question well worthy of his full attention. He loves a good experiment. He lifts his hand to his mouth to clean his wet fingers, and her eyes lose focus at the noise of appreciation he makes. She swallows audibly as he licks the taste of her off his hand, and he grins at the way she can't seem to tear her gaze from his tongue.

Hypothesis: Foster likes to get eaten out. And it's a hypothesis he'll take great pleasure testing.

He kisses a line down the side of her neck, along her collarbone, between her breasts, his hands sliding over her skin, caressing and teasing. He can feel the movement of her lungs, the pounding of her heart, and it scares the crap out of him even as it sets his own body thrumming. She's utterly gorgeous, the skin of her belly under his lips is so delicious it needs a whole new word, but it's Foster - it's  _Gillian_ , his Gill, and he can't quite... it's just too much.

"Cal..."

He's suddenly aware he's stopped, his cheek against her stomach, his hands clasped around her waist, clinging on to her like she's the only thing keeping him upright. It might not be very far from the truth.

"Cal, please..."

He gulps the uncertainty down. It's a little late for second thoughts, and if he can just blow her mind sufficiently, maybe she'll let him stick around, if he shows her how good they can be together, maybe the transition from best friends to lovers won't be as bumpy as he fears. His mind is in pieces at her feet, and good  _God_  he's dying to taste her, and if he's going to do this potentially stupid thing, he might as well do it to the best of his ability.

He presses his face into her, kissing and licking and nipping, and even though he feels like he's having some kind of weird (if undeniably wonderful) out of body experience, he can't help but notice and grin when he hears her sigh of relief and feels her hand pushing insistently (and not very gently) at his head, telling him without words to get  _on_  with it already.

Finally, he's reached his destination, and he wastes no time in teasing - it's not what this is about - just pushes his face between her legs with no preamble and no warning, opening his mouth wide to encompass as much of her as he can, licking hard through the satin of her underwear, which is already so wet she might as well not be wearing any.

Well, actually... he hooks his fingers into the sides of her knickers and edges them down over her hips. When he glances upwards, her head has fallen back against the wall so he can't see her face, just the underside of her chin, but her breasts are heaving and her hand is twisted into his hair, so he chooses to believe she's good with it and pulls the sodden fabric down to her ankles. She obediently steps out of them, and he shoves them in his pocket, then he's tugging her leg over his shoulder and diving in again, burying himself in her, finding her hot, wet and delicious.

She rocks shamelessly against his face, and he'd wondered if she'd be bothered by the generous growth of stubble on his cheeks and chin, but judging by how she's grinding against him, she isn't bothered at all. In fact, he'd hazard a guess she rather likes it.

He never would've thought - never would've  _allowed_  himself to believe - she could be this into a bit of rough. That she could be so into, well,  _him_. And with that astounding thought rattling around in his mind, he sets about trying to make her brain melt.

When he's thoroughly explored her, has a more than satisfactorily wet face, and is reasonably convinced he's never going to forget how she tastes (even if this is the one off he's desperately afraid it will be) he lets himself work his way upwards. Her breathing is harsh and ragged, and she keeps gasping out something he thinks, hopes, is supposed to be his name. His tongue finally curls around her clit, and the hand in the back of his hair pulls so hard he finds himself swearing even though his mouth is very definitely otherwise occupied. There's a strong chance she's going to cause him some serious physical harm before the night's out, but he can't bring himself to care as he feels her dissolving around his tongue and his fingers. He pushes his luck - because hey, he's Cal Lightman, it's what he does best - and starts to lick and suck harder, to the point where there's an even chance of her coming really hard or punching him, then grins into her flesh when it's greeted by high pitched keening and her leg shaking for a moment before she breaks, and her body pulses and contracts and practically vibrates as her orgasm washes over her.

 _Hypothesis proven_. He'd be more smug about it if he didn't already have way too many emotions swirling around his head from making her fall apart all over his face. As it is, it's all he can do to keep breathing.

He tugs her leg off his shoulder and sets her foot firmly down on the floor so she has a reasonable chance of staying more or less upright. He should probably get her out of her shoes, because stilettos and wobbly knees seem like a bad combination, but he's too taken with the image of his Gillian naked except for her stockings and her high heels. It's not something he can readily give up.

Slowly, he stands, allowing his hands to slip gently up the sides of her legs and her waist and her ribcage, letting his lips trail a soft path up her body. When he reaches upright, she's crumpled over enough they're the same height now, and her eyes are drowsy and sated.

"Cal."

Now this,  _this_  is what he wants as his ringtone. Desperate Foster is pretty spectacular, but Satisfied Foster, that's even better. Foster Who's Just Come Her Brains Out. It's a little unwieldy, but it's accurate. And delightful.

Happy Foster? He's not sure.

He tilts his head and presses his lips to hers, and she collapses into him as she kisses him back, her arms looping lazily around his back and neck. "Cal," she says again, and he wants her to always say his name this way. Warm and intimate, as if she's confiding secrets only he gets to hear.

"All right, love?"

"Mmhm." Her voice is lazy, the syllables dripping out slowly like syrup, and just as sweet. No longer full of fury, and as much as he loves angry sex, and as much as he'd protest the idea he could be so particularly afraid of  _her_  displeasure, he's beyond relieved she might've forgiven him, or at least is no longer blindly mad at him.

He kisses her again, till they're both melting, and undeniably it's hot as hell to have her pressed up against the wall this way, but there's a long denied romantic inside him overriding the whole bad boy veneer. Plus he's just not sure if he has it in him to hold them  _both_  up any longer than he already has. He half drags, half carries her to the bed, flops down next to her, leans his head and his heart in to kiss her tenderly.

"Mmmm," she says when they surface, and smiles, blinking slowly, as if she's drunk.

He grins uncontrollably. Part of him is still expecting disaster to occur at any second - for her to ask what the hell he thinks he's doing, or for him to panic and run, or  _something_  - but in this precise moment, everything is well and right and exactly as it should be.

"You okay?"

She searches his face, and he wonders if she's dealing with the same strange mixture of hope and doubt he is. There are times he really hates how difficult a read he finds her.

It  _entrances_  him, too, always has - he's pretty sure she's never realised how much. She's often teased him about his fascination for women he can't fathom, for beauty and mystery combined, but she's never made the leap to realising he includes her in that category, right at the top, in fact, even though she knows she's a difficult read, his personal blind spot.

Sometimes he thinks she's like him, afraid to make the connection, afraid to read too much into it. Other times he thinks she's just that innocently clueless about her own beauty.

Eventually she smiles again. "I'm good."

The relief is so intense it's almost sexual. He's no idea what'll happen in the morning, but right now she's all right, and it's something he can trust in and lean on while his brain has a minor freak-out. "I'm glad."

Her smile turns mischievous. "If I wasn't worried about giving you a big head, I'd tell you how good you are at that."

"Too bad I'm such a smug bastard, really."

She chuckles, and it's such a familiar, beloved sound it grounds him, lets him laugh as well. She pulls him in for another kiss, and it's so good but also so normal, so  _familiar_. He could get used to this all too easily.

He's so caught up in the kiss he isn't paying attention to... well, to  _anything_  else. When her hand slips down over his stomach and palms him through his trousers, the noise he makes is surprise and desire and shock all mixed up. She laughs again, and now her hands are busy with his fly, and he pulls away from her lips so he has some chance of continuing to breathe. "Gill- oh God..." He feels like he should be saying something else, something more profound, but it's all he can force out.

Finally her hand slips inside his boxers, cool and smooth as she wraps her fingers around his dick, and he gasps and screws his eyes shut in an effort not to just come there and then.

"Gillian-" It's a strangled, mangled version of her name, and she laughs at him. "Oh please, good God..."

He can feel her smile as she kisses his cheek, leaning close to whisper in his ear. "Inside me. Now."

He swallows hard. "I just need-" He turns to reach for the bedside cabinet, hoping desperately to find a condom in there.

She pulls him back. " _Now_ , Cal." Her tone isn't allowing for any argument.

"But... protection, love..."

"Don't care." She shakes her head violently. "Just fuck me, Cal. Need you to...  _need_  you..."

He swallows hard. Common sense and common decency are demanding he stop this, right now, but his better angels are no match for Gillian, her lips brushing his skin, her voice husky, demanding he get inside her. Her need is overwhelming.

He kicks off the last of his clothing, and they're both naked, and he's having another out of body experience as he pushes her onto her back, and she pulls her knees up, spreading her legs for him. It's a sight he's hardly even allowed himself to imagine he might ever see. He lowers himself on top of her, and she reaches for him again, making him  _whimper_  as she guides him in.

He's not prepared for any of it, barely knows how to keep breathing, can't deal with the silky embrace of her body, or the little cracked noise of relief in his ear as his hips meet hers. For a moment they stay absolutely still, and despite the evidence of his senses, he still can't quite believe he's balls deep in her.

"Bloody hell, Foster. You feel fucking incredible." He should probably get a bit more practice at pillow talk. He's slightly... rusty. Just as well she's not expecting too much romance from him, really.

"Less talk, more... movement."

He swallows. His hips are no longer under his conscious control, and all he can think as he slowly starts to move is that no one has ever felt quite this way, this  _right_ , no one has  _ever_  fit him this well, no one else ever will. It's absolutely thrilling and absolutely  _terrifying_.

"Yes... yes..."

She looks like she's in ecstasy, and her hips are meeting his with each stroke. He frames her face with his hands, needing to touch her, to see her, to somehow prove to himself this is real.

"Gill... Gillian... please, darling..."

She slowly opens her eyes, smiles, reaches up to stroke his cheek. "Hey, Cal. It's okay. I'm here. It's okay, we're okay, Cal. I'm here."

Thirty seconds ago he was ready to lose his mind, but now she's looking at him, he's all right. Everything is okay when she's holding him with her gaze, whatever's going on. Financial trouble, psychopaths, leggy blondes, bombs, or the simple stupidity of sleeping with your best friend. None of it matters, none of it can touch him as long as he's got her. "Gillian."

She smiles, reaches up to pull his head down to hers, kisses him so tenderly, and it's everything, means everything, to be with her, right with her in this moment, and they're gonna be okay, they  _are_ , they are.

He sinks into the kiss, lets her be his anchor, relaxes into the pleasure and the sheer joy of this act, which has so much more meaning because it's with  _her_. In what feels like no time at all, he's coming apart and coming undone and just plain coming, and she holds him together through all of it.

When he can breathe again, think again, he's collapsed on her, and her limbs are folded around him. He shakes his head. "Fuck."

"We just did, or didn't you notice?"

He laughs at her stupid joke, buries his face in the side of her neck to surround himself with the taste and smell of her. "God, Gill. That was... amazing. Bloody amazing."

She wraps her arms tighter round his body. "It was pretty good, wasn't it?" He can feel her smile against his ear. "I'm trying to still be mad at you but I just don't have the energy for it right now. Was this how you planned it?"

He grins. "Wouldn't've dared hope, darling."

"Hmmm." She sounds more amused than anything else. "Just so long as you don't expect to win arguments this way in the future."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it."

"Why don't I believe that for a second?"

"I dunno, love. Maybe you know me too well."

"Hmmm. You know," she says, nuzzling into his shoulder, "when we get back I'm gonna keep you on the world's shortest leash so we have some hope of getting through this quarter without going under."

 _As long as it means I'm near you, Gillian, you can keep me on the shortest leash you can find_. He doesn't, yet, have the nerve to say it out loud. "I'll bear that in mind."

"Just... I hate being mad at you, Cal." It's a soft, slightly painful admission, and it's a better reprimand than any amount of shouting or glaring.

"I'm sorry."

She nods. "I know."

He really has no idea how they're going to navigate this development in their relationship, but from his current vantage point, it seems remarkably doable. With Gillian as his foundation stone, he'll figure it out somehow.

He tugs her in closer, tucking her head into the crook of his neck, and grins when she wraps her arms and legs tighter around him, too.

There's something sharp poking his bum, and he laughs when he suddenly realises it's the shoes he couldn't bring himself to remove.

"What?"

He wouldn't know how to explain the joy and amusement he's getting from her high heels in his arse, so he shrugs. "Just... God. You are..." He shakes his head. "Never told me you could be roulette, Foster."

She shrugs a shoulder. "You never asked, Cal. Never considered, never thought of me that way. You just assumed."

He thinks about it for a moment, shakes his head, grins. "Sorry, love." She's right. She's home and safety and security. It never occurred to him those things could coexist so perfectly with excitement and mystery and endless possibility, and he's a pillock for not seeing it sooner.

Of  _course_  she's roulette. She's the fixed point around which his life spins.

The main difference, when it comes to Gillian, is how for some reason the odds are and always have been stacked inexplicably in his favour, and how much he loves that. In most things in life he likes risk and danger and the longest odds he can find, but when it comes to her... he keeps winning the jackpot and it delights him every bloody time.

"Gill?"

She looks up at him with sleepy, satisfied eyes. "Mmhm?"

"Bit slow sometimes, aren't I?"

"Sometimes?"

"Oi!" They both laugh. "Sorry I'm so dense, darling."

She smiles at him, the fond, slightly exasperated smile with which he is intimately familiar. "'S okay."

He wants to tell her he'll never fuck up this badly again, but he's not sure it's a promise he can keep. He wants to tell her he loves her, which is true, but he thinks she probably needs him to prove it a bit better before he starts saying it aloud. He wants to tell her he'd be in the funny farm if it weren't for the way she holds him together and stops him going off the deep end, but he doesn't want to put that weight on her shoulders.

In the end, he settles on a lesser truth. "I'll try and do better, love." He means it in a lot of ways, ways he can't necessarily articulate just yet, but he trusts Gillian to understand, the way she always does.

"Okay."

He rolls them over so he's no longer squashing her, and she kicks off her shoes and settles against his chest as he tugs the duvet over them both.

"'Night," she murmurs, and he smiles at the way she burrows into him.

"'Night."

He stays awake a while longer, gently stroking her hair and her back and wondering how he got so lucky. Vegas has never been quite this good to him before. And then he falls asleep to the quiet rhythm of her breath.

_~ fin ~_


End file.
